Code Name: Blondie. Christina Skye

You’re over, honey. I’m going to see to it personally as soon as I get back to L.A.”

      Miki resisted an urge to hit him again, instead dredging up a cloyingly sweet smile. “If I’m over, then it won’t hurt me to file a nice sexual harassment suit against you, will it? Won’t that look lovely when it hits the papers? You sell a lot of calendars in college bookstores, don’t you? I’d say your sales are going to tank when the female students hear about your problem keeping your pants zipped.”

      Vance’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. “You little bitch. You are dead as far as new photographic work is concerned.”

      Miki returned his cold stare. “Try it, Vance. If you do, my agent will enjoy contacting every female photographer in America so they hear about your little scam,” she blustered.

      Meanwhile, her teeth were chattering. Fired and now blacklisted. Could her life get any worse?

      At least she had new photos for her portfolio, taken on her free time during this trip. Several freelance sales should help make up a month’s lost salary and the cost of her new camera equipment.

      Vance puffed past her, smiling. “You didn’t read the last page of our contract, did you?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Stupid move, babe. I mean you can forget having anything for your portfolio. It’s all mine—every print and digital image. Your film agent wanted to reject the clause, but it was nonnegotiable if you wanted the assignment. That means you get no use of anything without my approval—and trust me, you won’t ever be getting that.” His lips curved. “Unless you want to reconsider my offer.”

      “You mean the quickie in the sand?” Miki squeezed her hands together to keep them from lunging at him. She’d purchased a new camera and lenses, slaved for three weeks, and now the weasel had cut her out of rights to her own work.

      Stupid move.

      Vance was right about that. She should have listened to her photo agent and negotiated harder, but she had been too afraid of losing the job. She had decided to stop coasting or being casual about her life plans. That meant no more whining.

      And look where that had gotten her.

      She knocked Vance’s sweaty fingers from her shoulder. “I’d rather suck glass chips through a straw.” She stalked to the Cessna and climbed abroad. The pilot barely noticed her, too busy staring at the dark line of clouds covering the horizon.

      Miki turned, following his gaze. “Is something wrong?”

      “Not really. We’ve got a little weather moving in, that’s all. Where’s Vance?”

      “Back up the beach. Probably grabbing his gear.”

      “He’d better hurry up.” The pilot rubbed his neck. “Once we’re up in the air, you should check that your cameras are stowed. That storm is moving in faster than I thought.”

      16°58’ south latitude

      152°12’ west longitude

      MIKI COULDN’T DRAG HER eyes away from the wall of gray clouds. Slouched beside her, Vance muttered crossly, avoiding eye contact. Dutch, the pilot, hadn’t spoken since they’d lifted off, but he’d consulted his watch twice and his fingers were tight on the controls.

      A pilot with white knuckles was never a good sign.

      “What the hell’s going on out there?” Vance snapped. “You said that tropical depression was moving to the south. You said—”

      “I was wrong.” The pilot didn’t glance up. “And if you’re asking why I didn’t know sooner, it’s because you insisted on renting the oldest plane you could find. I told you the nav and comm equipment was out of date.”

      Miki squirmed uneasily. Old equipment and a cheap-skate boss. How could her fantasy job get any worse?

      She peered at a dark wedge of clouds to the south. “Shouldn’t we be halfway to Bora Bora already? We can outrun the storm.”

      “A Category Five storm can pack crosswinds above 160 miles per hour. If we’d left when I wanted to, instead of waiting for you two to do the dirty in the dunes, this storm wouldn’t be a problem.”

      “That wasn’t my idea,” Miki said angrily.

      “You wanted it,” Vance snapped. “Don’t give me that bullshit.”

      The engine sputtered, cutting off Miki’s angry response. Dutch pumped a control beside his knee, his mouth a flat line.

      “What’s wrong?” Vance swung around. “What was that noise?’

      The grizzled pilot didn’t answer, fiddling with a row of controls.

      “Damn it, I asked you a question, Dutch.”

      “Trust me, you don’t want to hear the answer.” The pilot leveled a cold look at his employer. Miki realized that Dutch wasn’t looking bored and lazy any longer. “Get your seatbelt hooked, the way I told you.”

      “Why should I—”

      “Because I told you, damn it, and I’m in command here.”

      Vance looked startled, then angry, but he did as he was told. He wiped sweat off his forehead as he stared out at the gunmetal sea below them, alive with boiling waves. “What are we going to do now?” His voice was petulant.

      “Praying wouldn’t hurt.” Dutch fingered the radio and waited, but all that came back was static.

      The engine coughed again.

      They were in real trouble, Miki realized. Trouble as in mayday and life jackets and forced sea landings. Her fingers dug into the sides of the seat as she fought back terrified questions.

      Dutch looked back at her. “You strapped in, Blondie?”

      She nodded mutely, cheered by his thumbs-up gesture. They were in a seaplane, she told herself. Dutch was an experienced pilot. He could bring the plane down, land at sea and radio for help. Someone was bound to find them. There had to be major shipping lanes nearby.

      But she wasn’t thinking about pontoons or shipping lanes when the engine sputtered and died completely. The plane nosed forward and shuddered. Cold with fear, she squeezed her hands against her lap as they plummeted toward the angry water.

      Dutch gripped the radio microphone. “This is Cessna ID number three—niner—four—zero—niner broadcasting on Mayday frequency. I repeat, this is a Mayday call…”

      MAX PRESTON HAD NOTHING good to say about airplanes. The ground was better than the air, but water was where he felt most at home, thanks to both instinct and long training.

      Right now he was thirty thousand feet above the Pacific, the sun brushing scattered clouds as he secured his jumpsuit. In approximately six minutes he’d hit the plane’s jump door and drop into a two-minute free fall.

      He still couldn’t get over the Labrador retriever nearby, strapped into a vest and parachute of his own. “Is Truman prepped?” he asked.

      His commanding officer nodded briefly. “The dog is A-okay, Preston. He’ll be on oxygen via mask, just like you. Are you clear on those codes we went over? 92 for visual on Cruz or any hostile forces in the area. 705 for sighting of the missing weapon.”

      Max shifted his parachute slightly, straightening the line of his oxygen mask. “Good to go on the codes, sir. Two short burst signals, 606, for probability on the weapon device and 797 in the event emergency extraction is called for. But I won’t need extraction.” The Navy SEAL’s face was calm as he slipped on the thin but highly tensile gloves that had become a staple during his long covert training. From now on his skin contact would be limited. His senses were too special to risk sensory overload.

      Wolfe Houston, team leader of the government’s secret Foxfire program, crouched down and patted the big